


Barefoot In The Park

by fightforyourwrite



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arguments, Based on a Play, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, F/M, Modern Era, POV First Person, Tiny Apartments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 06:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11914899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightforyourwrite/pseuds/fightforyourwrite
Summary: Hitch wants Marlowe to live, Marlowe wants Hitch to sleep, and Annie becomes a very uncomfortable house guest.





	Barefoot In The Park

**Author's Note:**

> If you can't tell, this is based off the play/movie Barefoot In The Park by Neil Simon. I had to study a few scenes of it for a class and the main characters just reminded me of Hitch and Marlowe. 
> 
> Specifically, I studied the main argument scene and watched a performance of it as well. 
> 
> The idea of writing the story from the perspective of Annie came from The Great Gatsby. I just thought it'd be interesting to see a relationship filtered through the eyes of another person. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Marlowe Freudenberg appears to be the last guy I could ever expect Hitch to marry. Then again, I could never expect someone like Hitch to even marry at all. 

I witness a very interesting contrast as I sit on the couch of their apartment. On one end of the place, there’s Hitch pouring herself a nightcap from a bottle of 12-year-old scotch. Then on the other side, through a slight crack in the bedroom door, there’s Marlowe taking off one of those custom-fitted Italian-made suits he appears to be very fond of. 

I keep focused on my book in front of me as I try to ignore the chill. Snowflakes descend from the sky outside and the cold seeps into every corner of Hitch and Marlowe’s tiny apartment. Apparently, the radiator in this place seems to be the coldest thing around. 

I knew to expect cold when I came out to the city, I just did not expect my currently lodging situation to have such a faulty heating system. Thank god I packed about seven sweaters with me.  

Hitch pours the amber liquid into two glasses and makes the extremely short walk from the kitchenette to the couch. I expect that the second glass if for Marlowe, but when Hitch sits down, she hands it over to me. 

“Drink, Annie?” 

I don’t find it in me to refuse. 

“Sure, why not?” 

Hitch had poured me a drink on the very first night I met her, a night that’s now buried in both of our pasts. The drink on that night burnt the back of my throat on the way down. The drink she gives me tonight does the same thing.

I guess some things never change, or maybe I’m just not used to drinking scotch. 

Hitch relaxes on the couch, leaning back as she takes a pull of her drink.

I find it exceedingly strange that Hitch can dress in such a way despite the temperature being enough to render my toes numb. She’s wearing what appears to be one of Marlowe’s dress shirts, one with pinstripes that’s definitely way too big for her. 

I look at the material and start to imagine how Marlowe would explain it to me. In his stuffy voice, he would go on about how it’s made of top-quality cotton imported from overseas, and Hitch would roll her eyes before telling her husband that he’s taking things too seriously. 

It’s my second and last night with Hitch and Marlowe and I think I’ve already spent too much time psychoanalyzing every aspect of their lives. 

Behind me and Hitch, we hear the bedroom door squeak open. We turn around at the same time to see Marlowe coming out in sleepwear much more proper than his wife’s. Soft pyjama pants that I don’t doubt were custom tailored too and the t-shirt I guess he was wearing underneath his button down. 

“Haven’t you had enough to drink, Hitch?” Marlowe says.

I look to Hitch to see her rolling her eyes. 

“I’m allowed to enjoy a nightcap, now aren’t I, Honey?” 

The way she says  _ ‘honey’ _ makes me think that she calls him that as some kind of mocking nickname and not because she actually wants to refer to him as so. 

“You had a lot at dinner,” Marlowe reminds her. He walks up to the couch and rests his hands on the back, “You know, if you want to get wasted, can’t you do it on our stuff at home and not when we’re out?”

“Those martinis were shit anyway,” Hitch shrugs. She takes another gulp of her scotch, “The best ones always come from gin, not from vodka, mind you.”

Dinner with Hitch and Marlowe was a strange thing to witness. The night started with them arguing about where to go. I guess that’s what I get for replying  _ ‘anything is fine’ _ when asked where I would like to eat. The two squabbled about whether or not to go to a French restaurant or a Korean one. 

Hitch told him that she liked both the same and Marlowe went on about how they were not the same and that she was acting discriminatory for thinking so. 

I wonder if that’s what they teach people in law school, how to pull shit out of their asses to win arguments with their spouses. 

We ended up going to a French place that night and I tried a lot of dishes with names I could not pronounce. 

Marlowe huffs and heads off to the bathroom to brush his teeth. 

“He seems to be in a good mood,” I remark dryly. 

“He really does,” Hitch agrees as sarcastically as I do. She then glares at the open bathroom door, “And he would be in an even better mood if he learned to  **_LOOSEN UP AND HAVE A DRINK ONCE IN AWHILE._ ** ” 

I’ve always joked to myself that Hitch’s voice was catty and loud enough to shatter windows. I hate being right.

Marlowe turns around just after he applies paste to his brush, “I don’t drink because someone has to take you home after you get shitfaced.” 

“I do not get shitfaced, Marlowe Joel Freudenberg,” Hitch declares. She gets over the back of the couch with a single, mighty leap. Her feet hit the floor and she walks up to Marlowe in the bathroom, “I just happen to be in the perfect spot between tipsy and drunk. I’m dripsy.” 

“That’s not even a word!” Marlowe retorts. 

“It doesn’t have to be a word,” Hitch declares. “I’m not drunk.” Then she rocks back her glass and takes in all her whiskey in a rather loud gulp. 

Hitch Deliss may be married to an upper-class yuppie with a good paying job and have an apartment in one of the nicer places in town, but I see that she hasn’t truly given up on her party-girl ways. She just gets drunk on top-shelf liquor now. 

“And I’m not an educated man with an Ivy League degree,” Marlowe responds sarcastically. 

“You know what you are, Marlowe Joel Freudenberg?” Hitch brings up. She puts her glass down. “You’re a stuffed shirt.” 

“A stuffed shirt?” Marlowe questions. “What the hell does that supposed to mean?”

On impulse, I speak up, “It means that you’re stuffy and pompous and conservative, Marlowe. You’re not the only educated person here.” I might not be on his Ivy League level, but the internship I’m in town for should prove that I’m not underneath him. It’s hard enough to find opportunities in forensic anthropology as it is. 

Before he can fully comprehend what I just said to him, Hitch speaks. 

“You’ve never truly experienced life, Marlowe,” Hitch brings up, using various hand-movements to prove her point. “You spent eight years in school to become a sack of meat that argues with people for a living before you die. But you’ve never experienced anything else.”

“Sack of meat?” Marlowe questions. 

Hitch grabs his hand, “Let’s head out again, Marlowe! Run barefoot in the park! Climb to the roof to show the world what we’re made of!”

“First of all, it’s winter, so I’m not going anywhere with you when we’re dressed like this!” Marlowe explains huffily, pulling his hand out of Hitch’s.

He’s got a fair point. I think I’ve lost feeling in all my toes. 

“And second of all, I don’t need to experience life,” Marlowe continues. “I have you. You’re all the experience I need.”

Hitch crosses her arms, “And what is that supposed to mean?” 

“You’ll figure it out when you’re a little more sober, Sweetheart,” Marlowe tells her. He says the nickname ‘sweetheart’ the same way Hitch says ‘honey.’ 

Calmly, Marlowe brushes his teeth with Hitch staring directly at him. I wonder if this is a nightly occurrence for the two of them. I won’t be here long enough to make sure. 

I look back to my book in the meantime and attempt to take in the findings of the Professor I will soon be working under. 

I hear the sink running and them turning off. Then I hear Marlowe’s footsteps. 

“Where are you going?” I hear Hitch’s voice say.

I turn around again to get a good look at the lovely husband and wife.

“I’m going to sleep,” Marlowe explains. “I learned in law school that you say things you don’t mean when you’re either tired or hungry. I am now very tired because my lovely wife called me a sack of meat and assumed that I’ve never experienced life. I’m going to sleep.” He walks to the bedroom but stops at the door frame, “If you want to join me, I’ll be sleeping on the left side. The right is yours.”

“You bet your toned ass that the right is mine!” Hitch retorts. She might be a little more drunk than she lets on. 

Marlowe disappears into the bedroom and closes the door. But after a second, he opens it again and looks at me. “Goodnight, Annie. Sorry about the ruckus.”

“It’s okay.”

He slams the door shut again. 

Hitch lets out a rather frustrated sigh and crosses her arms. 

I put my book and my drink down on the coffee table and get off the couch, “Tonight seems to be going well.” 

“Don’t think too much of it,” Hitch assures me. She goes to the kitchenette and leans against the counter, “It’s like this a lot. Marlowe takes off his suit, I wear one of his shirts, I get a little drunk, then I bother him about the way we’re living.”

I guess that she’s referring to the apartment. There’s a crack in the skylight above that makes me wonder if I’ll catch a cold by sleeping here for any longer. The radiator is absolute shit and the place is so small that it’s impossible to have any sort of privacy here. 

I should have really just stayed at a cheap motel instead.

Hitch continues to speak, “Mr. Stuffed-Shirt Lawyer over there has spent too much time focusing on getting an overpriced education to earn an overpriced piece of paper. He’s a stickler. He won’t do anything fun with me.”

“Running barefoot in the park doesn’t seem like my idea of fun,” I have to admit. 

“But it’s an idea nonetheless,” Hitch claims. “Marlowe only likes facts, truths, things that he knows are right. He hates ideas or concepts because he just has to know everything. Ideas have freedom, which my lovely husband over there seems to hate.”

The bedroom door opens again and Marlowe pokes his head out, “The walls are paper thin, Hitch. I can hear everything you’re saying.”

She glares at him with those piercing eyes of hers, “Well… what if I want you to hear me?”

“Then just talk to me,” Marlowe pleads. “And leave our house guest out of it.”

“This isn’t a house, it’s an apartment,” Hitch declares.

“You know what I mean,” Marlowe says. 

Awkwardly, I look to the clock on the stove to see that it’s nearly 1AM. 

“It’s getting late,” I mutter. “Sleep will be the best for all three of us now.”

“She’s right, Hitch,” Marlowe agrees. He opens the door a little wider, “If you’re comfortable resting with your sack-of-meat husband for tonight, then I suggest you come in.”

“Why? It’s cramped in there anyway,” she points out. “I wouldn’t want to get in the way of you polishing your monkstraps and Duke Ellington watches.”

Marlowe looks a little more bothered than usual, “Duke Ellington is a jazz musician, I only wear oxfords and never monkstraps, and I own Daniel  **_WELLINGTON_ ** watches.”

“Does it even matter?” Hitch says, seemingly giving up.

Marlowe sighs, “Do you want to go to sleep?”

“I would,” I admit. I walk to the couch and grab the fleece throw off it. I don’t think neither Hitch nor Marlowe give a damn though.

“As long as sleep is the only thing we’re going to do,” Hitch says. “You have a habit of attempting to distract me whenever we’re arguing.”

“Oh trust me, sleep is the only thing,” Marlowe assures her in a cautious voice. “I know exactly what you’re referring to and we’d never do it in front of a house guest.”

“But you’ll clearly talk about it in front of a house guest,” I remind them. I don’t think they heard me though. 

“Fine, let’s sleep then, Mr. Sack-Of-Meat,” Hitch declares. She starts to walk towards the bedroom, “But this isn’t over!”

Marlowe scoffs as Hitch disappears inside, “Hitch, with us, things will never be over. That’s why I married you.” 

Then the door slams shut for what I hope is the final time tonight. 

Things between Hitch and Marlowe continue to amuse and confuse me. When I first met her new husband, I could not see the spark between the two of them. He came from the world of white-collared yuppies born to good families, she came from a life stepford smilers in the suburbs. 

I get that the city is what makes them feel free, where they can either pursue a good career in law or do that whole ‘running-barefoot-in-the-park’ thing Hitch seems to be so fond of. 

Nonetheless, maybe they need each other to balance themselves out. 

Maybe Hitch needs a strait-laced suitor to help her stay grounded. Maybe Marlowe needs a free-spirit to tell him that it’s okay to live in the moment. 

Love has always been a concept beyond my own comprehension. I finished grad school at the top of my class and I still have trouble figuring these things out. 

With a sigh, I turn off the remaining lights in Hitch and Marlowe’s apartment. The light from the street lamps outside allow me to see enough to get back on the couch. I pull the blanket over me just as I lie down.

At this time tomorrow, I’m going to be living in a small studio apartment just ten blocks north from here. Hitch promised that I could stop over on any night if I ever want her to get me good and drunk. I just might take her up on that offer. 

Just as I find myself dozing off, I can hear music playing from a Hitch and Marlowe’s room. It’s Duke Ellington, Marlowe’s favourite artist apparently. 

It’s rather loud, seemingly loud enough to drown out any other noises.

I anticipate exactly what’s going to happen next and let out a sigh.

I sit up just enough to grab my abandoned glass of scotch off the table and rock it back to finish the drink.


End file.
